Hold
by darlasmom
Summary: One-shot tag for stellar Hero in the Hold episode, because, as usual, one hour was not enough!


**Wow. What an episode. Hero in the Hold was one of the best of the season. Very moving, very touching. And action packed. As usual, it left me wanting more. This is my more. I hope you like it.**

**HOLD**

She hissed impatiently and shifted yet again in her chair. Booth had escaped the ship in the morning, and since then, they'd been here for hours, she and Booth, answering every question that was thrown their way. Even though they'd caught The Gravedigger and saved her final victim – and here her thoughts stuttered to a dreadful halt, as they did every time she mentally broached the subject. _Focus, Temperance. Use your brain._ She calmed herself and continued her thoughts. With everything all of them had done that day, they were still being treated as if they were somehow responsible for what had happened._ If it hadn't been for us, all of us, Booth wouldn't be here now._ Jared was somewhere else, dealing with his own problems. His own very-large, definitely-not-going-to-go-away problems. She spared him a single, tepid thought before returning to her internal rant.

Despite everything Booth had been through, he was sitting here patiently, answering questions the best he possibly could, with the information he had. Occasionally, he would turn to her for confirmation on something he'd heard second-hand, and she would either nod or shake her head, only issuing curt sentences when absolutely necessary. They'd tried to separate them, but she was having none of it, and was only grudgingly giving information. The rage bubbled, and for once, she maliciously let it stew. She hated them all. Damn it, couldn't they see how tired he was, how badly he was injured? He was hiding it well, behind a veil of professionalism and tough guy, former-Army Ranger bluntness, but he was exhausted, and hurt, and – he was upset. That almost bothered her the most. He'd been through a nightmare – and none of them knew just how bad a nightmare but her, and Hodgins – but still he played their game and swatted the verbal ball back to them, hour after hour. She'd exploded at them once or twice, in the beginning, but when he'd told her he was okay, she'd heard the unspoken _leave it alone, Temperance, let's get it over with_ and had no choice but to desist. But she hated them, viciously, on his behalf.

She'd tried to sweep him off to the hospital, but after the preliminary checkup by the medics showed no life-threatening injuries, he'd acceded to his superior's imperious request and gone instead to the Hoover. Since then, he'd had to submit to a near-interrogation that he would normally never have tolerated. She wondered at his strength-of-will, how he dealt with the pain without losing his composure. When the answer finally came to her, she had to physically fight the overwhelming urge to vomit. Torture. Every bit of self-control evidenced now was a direct result of what he'd gone through in the war, when he'd been captured. Sweeping rapidly in on the heels of her nausea was a rush of tears, which she only avoided with superhuman effort. If he could withstand the cold, clinical, unsympathetic proceedings, then she would have to muster the strength to support him. But he was the only one she cared about right now, and she'd just about had enough. She began to hate them twice as much.

The FBI and Justice Department bigwigs in the room finally began to notice the baleful stares being leveled at them. Glances were exchanged, seasoned agents began to fidget and sweat under the intense, unyielding scrutiny. Finally, even the normally oblivious suits began to feel uncomfortable, and she knew then that they were done. Excuses were given, oblique praise was bestowed, and finally, Booth was given permission to 'go get checked'. Bastards. Unfeeling, insincere, fucking uncaring _bastards_. She threw a brief, sarcastic word of thanks to Booth's God that she hadn't given in to the urge to hurt them, and carefully tended to her partner. "Let's go, Booth." Sliding her arm under his, she helped him slowly stand and make his way down the hall.

"Oh, man, I can't wait to get home."

"I'm sure that's true; however, you're not going home. You're going to the hospital, which is where you **should** have been taken immediately. Watch your step, here."

"Bones, I don't need the hospital, I'm fine. I just need to go home and relax for, oh, I don't know, five days or so."

He was grinning at her, but the smile was forced from the tired, aching lines of his face, a flat, colorless imitation of his usual lively expression. "Nice try, Booth. Here, I'll help you into the truck." She was shocked at how much assistance he actually required to get into the vehicle. He could smirk and brush off her concern as much as he wanted, but he was in a fair amount of discomfort. The explosion had injured him more seriously than he'd let on. He had an amazing tolerance for pain, and wouldn't be displaying any weakness unless he had no choice. Before he could argue again – and he _was_ about to, she could see it in his eyes – she leaned close, garnering his full attention. "Agent Booth. Do you remember when you found me, after the Gravedigger took me?" She'd chosen her words well; what little spirit had been twinkling in his eyes snuffed out in a flash, and she knew without a doubt he was listening. "I didn't want to go to the hospital, yet I believe I wasn't given any choice in the matter. Do you recall that?"

Knowing he was outfoxed, but unwilling just yet to give up the argument, he huffed dispiritedly and looked away, through the windshield.

She nodded tersely. "Exactly. What makes you think, with the situation reversed, that you have any more choice than I did then?" She watched him intently, until she was sure there would be no more discussion. "Now – sit back so I can fasten your seatbelt, and we'll be at the hospital in a few minutes."

*****

There was no question of him driving; he couldn't have done it if he wanted. He'd stiffened intolerably during the long sit-down, and his muscles were bunched and twitchy, aching in tandem with his neck and head. The broken ribs weren't helping, either. He conceded the point to his partner with what little grace he could muster, and spent the short trip to the emergency room in silence, head tipped back and eyes closed.

Quick visual flashes and accompanying thoughts bumped through his mind as they sped along the boulevards. Most he quelled immediately – they were hardly calming in nature. He'd learned to put those types of ideas out of his head several years ago. Some he welcomed. A picture of his partner as she'd been during the briefing clicked into focus, and he dwelled on it, smiling slightly. He'd nearly been able to hear the snarl coming from her during the proceedings; she'd been _that_ angry. While he appreciated that she wanted to take care of him, he knew it was best to deal with the bureaucracy first, get rid of the red tape. Otherwise, they'd be contacting him every few hours, and he was in no mood for that. Now that they'd left the Hoover, however, she had the upper hand, and they both knew it. At this point, she could have tapped him on the shoulder and knocked him over. As if to emphasize that fact, the truck hit a particularly bad bump, driving a groan from him.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it, Bones. No big deal." He could tell from her voice that her rage was swiftly turning to sadness and concern. He hated it. He preferred her when she was fired up about something, vivid blue eyes snapping sparks. Now _that_ was an image he could ride on the rest of the way to the hospital. Yep, that was what he was going to do. He'd just think about that, for a bit.

When they arrived, he allowed her to help him walk into a cubicle, after fiercely resisting the offer of a wheelchair. He was walking, and that was that. She fussed over him during the examination, bullying him with a gentle prodding that worked amazingly well. He'd have preferred that she wait outside while they listed his injuries, but couldn't bear to see the hurt in her eyes when he issued what he knew would have been, to her way of thinking, a rejection. So she sat next to him, holding his hand when possible, standing watchfully nearby when it wasn't, and he knew each word the docs uttered hit her like a blow from a sledgehammer. Even though she wasn't showing it, he knew. He forced as much animation into his responses as he could, but knew he wasn't fooling her at all. They were adamant that he be admitted; he was just as adamant that he was going home. The argument went back and forth as they checked him, running tests and taking blood and poking and prodding. She agreed with them; he could see it. She wanted him to stay. But he needed to be gone, needed it badly. He _hated _hospitals.

Eventually, when the tests were complete, and he'd been there for several hours of observation, she performed her own briefing of sorts, asking the ER staff thorough, detailed questions about his care and treatment. The painkillers they'd given him were finally doing the job, and he struggled to focus, stay in the moment and listen to what was being discussed. They still wanted him to stay. Before he could even formulate a foggy argument, she calmly informed the doctor that she would be caring for him, and that they were leaving. Amazingly, although he knew ER docs hated one a.m. discharges, they offered no resistance to her declaration, perhaps recognizing a mind and will greater than their own. Floating through the pain and exhaustion, he could only wonder that she knew him so well. Knew him, and cared enough to take him home when she wanted him to stay.

"Can you manage, Booth?"

She was alongside him again, helping him off the exam table and back through the night to the truck. The worst of his injuries had been sutured, bandaged, wrapped. His partner was helping him, never more than a step away. And she smelled wonderful. Yes, he could manage. With her, he was sure he would manage quite nicely.

*****

"We're here." When he opened his eyes and looked at her, confused, she hastened to explain. "I thought you'd be more comfortable at my apartment – I have the guest room, and plenty of food, so…" Her sudden nervousness was apparent, so he blinked and smiled, a grey, tired smile.

"Thanks, Bones. This is fine." The thoughts _anywhere I can get flat is fine_ and _anywhere you are is more than fine_ flickered in his head, but he had to stop because she was asking him questions, and he had to try and concentrate so the worry in her eyes wouldn't flare even brighter. No, he didn't want any food. No, he definitely didn't want to shower. Not yet. The thought of water made the nausea spring up bright and vicious in him. No water. She must have felt his body nearly convulse at the thought, because she squeezed his hand comfortingly and led him gently to the bedroom.

"You need to lie down, Booth. The painkillers are starting to take effect, you're swaying."

Swaying? Was he? He looked at her for reference, but that wasn't accurate, because he always looked to her for reference, had been for as long as he could remember, and as long as his eyes found her close by he always felt fine. Yeah, pills were working, thank fucking god, he recognized it now, because he was losing seconds. He'd been standing, now he was sitting, and now down in the bed, but the connecting moments were gone, like odd movements under a strobe light. She quietly, competently folded the blankets around him, and he watched her longingly, the medicine removing all his inner defenses. _Stay with me. Don't go._ He thought the words were running through his head, but maybe he'd said them out loud, because she looked at him, smiling sadly, and without a word lay down behind him, on top of the covers. Her slender arm was a welcome weight on him, and he wiggled his own arm until his hand popped out from under the covers. She didn't pull away when he grabbed her hand, just leaned closer and whispered to him.

"Go to sleep. I'm not leaving."

And that, he thought dimly, was all he needed to hear. He could rest now.

*****

He was out. Asleep. Finally. For a long time, she lay motionless, listening to him breathe. She carefully measured and counted the number and duration of inhalations, exhalations. Felt the accompanying rise and fall of his chest, and the counterpoint of his pulse. When the terror that he was somehow going to stop breathing began to slacken, she slipped her hand from his lax fingers and gingerly arose from the bed. She moved a chair to face him, trembling fingers fumbling so badly she almost dropped it twice. The lamp at the bedside was on its lowest setting, but it was enough. She needed to see him. She needed to watch his face, memorize it again, even though it was already etched in her brain. A slim, tireless sentinel, she sat, keeping guard over him. If her lips quivered, if tears rolled silently down her face, there was no one to see.

After a time he began to stir and toss, and she knew what was coming. She moved closer, kneeling on the floor next to him. Twice he sat bolt upright, shouting. Each time she calmed him, carefully talking to him, talking him down, stroking his face, his arms, squeezing his hands until the horrible rigidity passed from his body and he lay down again. She wondered who Teddy was, but knew she wouldn't ask him. If he wanted to tell her someday, he would. He wouldn't remember waking; of that she was almost certain. If he did, he'd think it had been part of his dreams. Without knowing the specifics of those dreams – nightmares, really - she knew what they were about. She'd had the same, after Booth had pulled her from that gravelly grave two years ago. But she knew it was worse, so much worse for him, because these nightmares would bring back the other, older nightmares, the horrible things that lurked in his past, canes and submersions and confinements, all waiting for the weakest moment to attack. The second time he'd yelled, she hadn't understood the words. Farsi, Kurdish, some other Middle Eastern dialect, she wasn't sure which. But she knew what he was saying. Fear and pain were the same in any language.

Her phone buzzed constantly; everyone at the lab wanted to know if they were okay. She sent out brief texts, reassuring them and notifying Cam that she'd be out of work for the next few days. Then she turned off her phone and instantly forgot about them. She had time for no one but Booth now.

Later, in the silent early morning hours, he moaned, and she stirred from where she lay next to him. Automatically, she wrapped her arms tight around him, and pressed her forehead to his. "Shh. It's alright." The moaning continued for another moment, but she kept whispering to him, holding him, and gradually he quieted. She risked letting go of him for just a moment, long enough to brush her fingers softly under his eyes, removing the outward evidence of his suffering. He shivered, and only then did she realize how cold the room had become. Without thinking or feeling or fearing, she slipped under the blanket, drawing it over both of them, and held him close. When he suddenly stilled, she knew he was awake.

"Bones?"

He sounded young; painfully, vulnerably so. With an odd feeling of surprise, she felt her heart crack, just a little. She hadn't believed that could happen. "Yes, it's me. Go back to sleep."

"You won't go?"

The crack widened, split neatly open without a sound. "I won't go." She curled against his back as he turned and curled in upon himself. She whispered again, anything she could think of, simple things, words in the night that demanded nothing of the listener, until at last he slept, and once again she counted his heartbeat in the dark.

*****

He came awake slowly, at first not sure where he was or _when _he was. Had he overslept? Without warning it all rushed in, the memories crushing him gleefully underfoot. As he shuddered in reaction, he felt the steady press of a body against him, and immediately stopped moving. She was still here. She hadn't gone. The quick blast of disappointment he'd felt disappeared, to be replaced by an almost overwhelming gratitude. He took a moment to offer a quiet prayer of thanks. For her. He ignored the knee-jerk worry and shut his eyes against the early-morning light, relishing the sensation of her quiet presence, her loyal arms tucked around him. For what seemed forever, he lay quietly, willing himself to go back to sleep, but at last had to admit that he was going to stay awake.

Carefully, slowly, he eased himself from her arms, and from the bed. Carefully so as not to wake her; slowly because his worn, stiff body simply wouldn't allow anything else. In the pre-dawn gloom, he stared down at her for several long, indulgent moments, then turned and made his aching way out of the room.

Once he reached the hallway he paused, indecision taking hold. Where was he going? Nowhere. There was nowhere, really, that he wanted to be except for where he'd just left. No one he wanted to be with but the person in the other room. He supposed he should wash up, but still couldn't wrap his mind around that task. Shortly, he found himself in the kitchen, although he knew his ability to keep any food down was just a little further away. A long, somehow-still-tired sigh escaped his lips, and he stood in the middle of the room, big hands dangling listlessly at his sides, wondering. Looking.

"Booth."

Tangled hair, wrinkled clothes, shadowed eyes, and still she was the best thing he'd ever seen. His hands ached, physically ached to touch her, but he reminded himself that the night was over, and he was on his own again. "I couldn't sleep." Risking another glance at her, he blinked in tired surprise to find her standing closer. Eyes as clear as water looked up at him, and she regarded him passively. He sighed again. She had a quiet way about her that invited the sharing of secrets. "I have to go to Arlington soon."

"Alright."

It was that simple. It always had been. She'd go with him, wherever he needed to go. No explanation needed, no reasons or details or excuses. But there was one place he had to go first, and he'd have to go alone. "I…I should shower before we leave."

She looked at him; a long quiet look that stripped him bare and laid him out before her, and held her hand out to him. "Come with me."

**If you liked this, drop me a line and let me know. Thanks so much for reading. Long live BB.**


End file.
